


Woven of Weeds and Green Things

by Culumacilinte



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aromantic, Asexual Character, Bittersweet, Female Character of Color, Female Frodo, Gen, Hobbits, POV Character of Color, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 06:32:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2611877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Culumacilinte/pseuds/Culumacilinte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sam wanted nothing so much as for Frodo to be safe and happy and live out the rest of her days in plain hobbit-fashion. There was no-one in the world who deserved it so much as her.</i>
</p><p>Featuring an aromantic asexual lady!Frodo</p>
            </blockquote>





	Woven of Weeds and Green Things

Frodo had more of an Elvish look than ever these days, Sam thought, but not in any good way. More than anything, she reminded him of the troupe of Gildor’s elves they’d met at the beginning of their long journey; on their way to the Havens, more than half departed already, even if their bodies still lingered on these shores. Nigh transparent, as she’d been after Weathertop, a figure of a hobbit blown in smoked glass. And too pale, at that. She’d always been fairer than some, but now it seemed that all the proper hobbit-brownness had been leached out of her skin, leaving her looking peaked no-matter how much time she took in the sun.

And she was still thin, too thin. Sharp and slender might look beautiful on an elf, but as far as Sam was concerned, it was plain wrong for a hobbit. Unlike Merry and Pippin, who’d taken to wearing their foreign finery like a badge of pride, Frodo had returned straight away to plain hobbit-clothes. She’d had to take all her old things to Goody Brockhouse to be taken in so that she didn’t look like a lass wearing her mother’s clothes. Sam had fussed, saying that it was his job to do for her, and he could manage a needle as well as the Goody, but Frodo had hushed him and told him he had enough to be getting on with, with Rosie and his gardening and his work in the rebuilding.

It hadn’t escaped him either how _alone_ Frodo was, and that was wrong as well. Hobbits weren’t meant to be alone; they had braces of children and cousins and siblings, whilst Frodo had only Sam and Rosie for company in her big old hole, and that was hardly all the time. Frodo was the only one of them left without a sweetheart; Sam had his Rose, and Mistress Merry had just this autumn got betrothed to Estella Bolger. Even Pippin, who was far too young to go getting married on any account, seemed quite content making a wretched flirt of himself.

Of course, he couldn’t recall that he’d ever known Frodo to step out with anyone, but it had been on Sam’s mind of late, and it didn’t seem quite fair.

He knew, of course, that it wasn’t his place to bother his Mistress over her own choices, but it niggled in the back of his mind like a weed that had put its roots down too deep to be pulled out proper. It was after she’d had one of her sicknesses that it all came spilling out, Sam’s hands still warm from the mug of tea he’d brought to put some colour back into her wan cheeks. Just like Sam Gamgee; mouth ahead of his feet, and he’d more sense in his feet if he’d only listen to them, but it was too late to do aught about it once the words were out.

‘Don’t you ever want for anybody else in your life? A sweetheart, I mean. Someone as could take care of you proper, like. It just don’t seem right, you all alone in this big old smial without any family; don’t you get lonely?’

‘Not really,’ said Frodo, with blinking surprise; the kind of thoughtless honesty that only a completely unexpected question can produce.

Sam frowned. Not that he didn’t trust her, for of course he did, no-one more in the world, but now he’d made the foolish step and brought the subject up, he might as well bull ahead. Frodo smiled to see the stubborn wrinkling of his brow, sad and fond. ‘Oh, Sam; would I ever lie to you?’

Sam paused, hesitating for a moment too long. ‘Begging your pardon, Mistress,’ he said eventually, ‘but I think you would. If you thought it were for my best, like. You do get a bit high-handed.’ Embarrassed, but determined to finish as he’d begun, he ploughed forward. ‘And you don’t never want to put the rest of us out, or let us see that you’re not happy. Like you think it’ll spoil it for the rest of us. But it doesn’t help aught to keep it all to yourself and have secrets from us as care for you.’

Sam was beet red by the time he’d finished, and Frodo looked at him in frank shock for a moment before bursting into laughter. ‘Bless you, Sam! Oh, what would I do without you?’

She took his hand in his, squeezing briefly. The stump of her missing finger, the scar still pink but no longer raw, blanched white for a moment with the pressure. Letting her hand rest there, she descended into thought, and Sam brought his other hand to cover it, stroking gently over her knuckles as he’d done countless times on their travels, mute comfort and reassurance all he could offer. Between his broad, nut-brown hands, Frodo’s looked nearly insubstantial.

‘I suppose,’ Frodo said thoughtfully, ‘I’m like Bilbo.’

Sam nodded along, not entirely seeing what she was driving at. When she was in her tweens, the whole Shire had said how like Bilbo Frodo was becoming, and once Bilbo had left and she’d become Mistress of Bag End, tongues and heads had wagged over those queer Bagginses, young Mistress Frodo just the same as her uncle. (And a pity it is, some had said, a handsome lass like her; any young hobbit-buck would be pleased to come calling on her if only she weren’t so _odd_ )

‘What I mean is,’ Frodo said, ‘Bilbo never married. To my knowledge, he never courted at all, even before he went on his adventure. I asked him once, soon after my parents died, when I’d just moved into Bag End with him. I was used to there being people everywhere, you see, living in Brandy Hall; dozens of cousins for me to play with, and always visitors coming and going; Bag End seemed awfully empty at first. So I asked Bilbo why he didn’t have a wife or children.’ She laughed, looking faintly embarrassed. ‘I couldn’t have been older than thirteen; you know how blunt children can be. Anyway, he explained that… he’d simply never wanted a wife. Even before, when he was young and respectable and a good prospect; whatever it was that other hobbits had that made them want to fall in love and settle down, he didn’t have it.’ 

She laughed again. ‘And just as well, he said! The way he saw it, the world was full of such interesting things, he didn’t know how he’d ever have had time for a wife.’

As it often did when she talked of Bilbo, Frodo’s expression had gone distant, her small smile wistful. Sam interrupted after a moment, gently. ‘But-- well, meaning no disrespect, but Mister Bilbo was, well--’

‘A fellow?’ Frodo interjected wryly, and Sam flushed again.

‘Well, yes,’ he admitted clumsily. ‘I’ve never heard of a hobbit-lady as didn’t want to settle down, as you say.’

As soon as he’d said it, Sam immediately sensed that he’d misstepped. Frodo suddenly looked more Elvish than ever, her pale face as if it had been carved in marble, inscrutable when Sam had always been able to read her, had understood her better than anybody. He fumbled to correct himself.

‘Meaning no disrespect! I just-- I suppose I just wanted to make sure, if you’ve not taken up with anyone, it’s, because of, well, you, Mistress Frodo, and what you want, not on account of the Quest and all.’ 

The words, Sam felt, were clumsy, utterly insufficient, but they seemed to have worked, for the distant, shuttered quality to Frodo’s expression melted into something much more present and open.

‘No, Sam. I-- I am injured, of course I am, but that doesn’t come into it. I’ve all the love I need! How could I possibly want for more, with you and Rosie, and Merry and Pippin, even poor old Fatty. I suppose--’ she exhaled a little laugh, mouth curling around sudden realisation. ‘I suppose I am lucky, really.’

‘How d’you mean?’

Frodo didn’t answer for some moments. ‘Well, if I were… as other people, if I wanted to find someone to settle down with, to fall in love-- I never could, could I?’

‘Frodo!’ Sam cried out, rising instinctively to defend her, but Frodo merely smiled and waved him down.

‘No, let’s be truthful. The darkness will never leave me, not really. And I feel old, much… much older than I am; a tired old hobbit haunted by wounds that will never truly heal; I don’t even know how long I shall remain here. How could I ever have the kind of love that leads to a marriage, or children? How much worse would it be if I were naturally inclined to want that? I think fate has dealt me an ill hand on many counts, but in this, I am _lucky_.’

She seized his hand in both of hers now, more passionate than Sam had seen her in months, firm and present, looking him straight in the eye. And though her voice was not raised, it rang with the force of sincerity, the will that had taken her to the Mountain and back. ‘I have the love and friendship of the best hobbits in the Shire; I have never wanted more than that.’

In the months after the War ended, Sam had felt acutely how much more complicated things were back among people, all the extra rules and judgements he’d not ever really thought about before he’d been in the Wild without them. On their journey, if Frodo had been cold, he’d wrap himself up around her to keep her warm; if she needed to be physically held back from shoving the Ring onto her finger, he’d done that; if she cried in her sleep, he’d softly dash away the tears; if she couldn’t walk any longer, he’d carry her. And for all it had been a miserable, never-ending, terrifying slog, it had felt good, in a way, to be able to take care of her that way. His Mistress. He’d been able to do what she needed and neither of them thought aught of it other than that it needed doing.

All at once, he felt the same again. If Frodo was lonely now, if she needed someone to hold her through nightmares, he couldn’t simply climb into her bed and be a solid warm presence at her back until she stopped shaking. It wouldn’t be proper; people would talk. He ached with the unfairness of it. 

Feeling that he must do something, and not knowing what else, he wrenched Frodo’s hand to his breast, bowing his head until his lips pressed against her knuckles. 

‘If you ever need aught, you must promise to tell me. I know as it ain’t my place to go demanding things, but--’

‘Oh, Sam,’ Frodo sighed, cupping the back of his head with her good hand and drawing him close, ‘My dear, dear Sam-lad. Forever worrying about me.’ Her fingers drew through his tawny curls, scratching against his scalp, and Sam enfolded her in a helpless embrace; in the circle of his arms, Frodo’s body felt frail. There was so much strength in her, but it was hidden down deep, and there was never as much of it as she might wish for. Sam wanted nothing so much as for her to be safe and happy and live out the rest of her days in plain hobbit-fashion. There was no-one in the world who deserved it so much as her.

But he wasn’t stupid; he knew that Frodo would never get that kind of happiness, no-matter how much it vexed him. Slowly he drew back, and as he did, Frodo bent to press a firm, dry kiss to his forehead. Sam sniffled, once, trying his best to hide it. This wasn’t about him, after all.

‘You cannot heal all my hurts,’ Frodo said softly, and he could hear more than see her smile; sincere, if a little wan. 

‘I know,’ he murmured. ‘But that don’t stop me wanting to.’

'Dear Sam; that stubborn head of yours shall be the saving of the Shire, I am quite sure of it.’ Frodo smiled, and squeezed his hand again. ‘As long as we understand each other.’

**Author's Note:**

> A NOTE ON NAMES: Frodo is still Frodo, because, per Appendix F, -o and -e are feminine endings and -a is masculine in the ‘untranslated’ original Westron hobbit names. I am merely keeping to that convention in my ‘translation’.
> 
> In this version of events, Merry Brandybuck’s full name is Marigold.
> 
> A NOTE ON SEXUALITY AMONGST HOBBITS: I pondered changing Merry’s betrothed from the canonically female Estella to a male version called Eldabad, before deciding, screw it, I’mma QUEER ALL THE HOBBITS. That being said, attitudes in the Shire towards That Sort of Thing are as follows:
> 
> It’s a bit peculiar, but as hobbits are, as a rule, aggressively fertile, it’s hardly a matter one way or another if the occasional hobbit happens to have a sweetheart with whom they can’t produce children. (Cissexism there because hobbit-society at large doesn’t have any real conception of trans-ness. Gender-nonconforming individuals tend to all be lumped into the category of ‘queer’, pun very much intended). There are enough cousins, second-cousins, nieces and nephews to go around. Even someone like Merry, who is the heir to an important position, would be under no pressure to produce an heir herself when there are any number of other relations to whom the title of Master might be handed down to.


End file.
